


Lodge Number 13

by Galadriel1010



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28319004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Greg Lestrade is a matchmaker whose most difficult client has been himself, Mycroft Homes is the lawyer for the mega-corporation threatening his family business, and they are forced to share the last cabin at the resort they've both been snowed in at.Inspired by a random prompt meme, ably egged on by meme and the Mystrade Readers Club, assisted by the army of cats. Merry Christmas
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 37
Kudos: 98
Collections: 12 Days of Mystrade and Friends





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t snowing yet. That was about all Greg could say for the weather conditions as the road twisted and twined up the valley, climbing ever higher into the Cairngorms. Not for the first time since setting off, he regretted his decision to take the short road over the mountains instead of the longer coast road. For the first time he was starting to regret the choice to head for Edinburgh at all. When he'd finally agreed to a couple of weeks off work, a scenic drive up the Dee and down Glenshee followed by a few days in Edinburgh, staying with his cousins at either end, had seemed like the crown jewel in the perfect two weeks of relaxation he needed. The weather would be crisp and clear, the snow deep and beautiful across the hills, and his hired Discovery would deal with any less than perfect road conditions with ease. Even half an hour after he set off, he'd been optimistic, with Who's Next blasting at full volume.

He'd turned it off a few miles back, needing every ounce of concentration he had and then some. Fragments of cloud up the glen had turned into thick, freezing fog, the temperature had plummeted like a stone, and the morning's light rain had frozen like glass. The ridiculous expense of the 4x4 had turned from a frivolous luxury to impress Margie's kids into a lifesaving choice - he felt faintly sick at the idea of his little Mini on these roads. Not that he would have risked it. It probably wouldn't have made it as far north as York, let alone reached Scotland, and it had no heating or power steering. That might have saved his life.

Greg forced his mind back to what he could see of the road in front of him and made himself release his death grip on the steering wheel. He knew this road. It was the start and end of summer holidays throughout his childhood and for a decent chunk of his adulthood, he'd driven it more times than he could count. It didn't scare him. Much.

A car loomed out of the gloom on the other side of the road and crept past him down the hill, slowly enough for him to catch the dad's eye and give him a thumb's up. The guy looked like he wouldn't sleep for a week after this, but they were nearly down now. Greg, on the other hand, had barely started.

He crawled on, praying that sooner or later he'd burst out through the cloud and be dazzled by the sunshine in a clear blue sky. More cars passed him, but not many. Most people, he told himself, had more sense than to be on this road in these conditions. He'd just resigned himself to turning around at the next opportunity when an orange glow in the murk caught his attention. Another few metres and flashing hazard lights resolved off to his left. Too far to his left. There was no barrier on this stretch, not even a flimsy wire fence, and the swanky BMW looked to have slid off the road and straight into the shallow ditch that ran alongside it. One wheel was dangling uselessly in the air, at least a couple of feet above the tussocky grass. They must have been taking it too far to be that far off.

A bloke in a fashionable but impractical leather jacket, barely visible in the gloom, flagged him down from beside the car and Greg put his own hazard lights on as he pulled off, careful to avoid the ditch, and braced himself for the cold before he piled out. No amount of bracing himself would have been enough. It was bitter, with the sharp cut of ice in the fog. He pulled his gloves up and cursed himself for failing to grab his hat.

"Thank fuck," the bloke said as Greg approached. He was rubbing his hands together to warm them as well as he could and paced the small patch of grass he'd chosen to occupy. Like Greg, he had no hat. Unlike Greg, he also had no gloves and was wearing Converse instead of boots. He saw Greg looking and pulled a rueful face. "Yeah, I know. Look, I've got the missus and the kids with me. I can wait here with the car, but is there any chance..."

Greg shook his head. "You're not waiting here, mate. Are the little 'uns at least wrapped up better than you?" When the bloke nodded, he sighed in relief. "Right, thank god for that. What's your name?"

"Tom. First trip to Scotland," he offered by way of explanation. "We're heading for Edinburgh."

"You'll need a tow to get that out. You got the warning triangle?" When Tom just grimaced again, Greg groaned. "Alright, get them into the Disco. Heating's cranked right up; you'll be right in no time. I'll deal with this."

The car was far enough off the road that he felt comfortable leaving it even on a night like that, so it didn't take him long to get things sorted. Even so, he was more than glad to make it back to the warmth of the car, where Tom was sitting in the passenger seat and turned around to talk to his partner and two small children. She looked even less impressed with the situation than Greg was, so he dropped any arguments as he slammed the door shut and craned round to look at her.

"Alright back there? I'm Greg."

"You're a lifesaver is what you are," she told him. "I'm Jen. This one's Katie, and this one's David."

He grinned at them. "Hey kiddos. Warm enough?"

The pair of them nodded at him, wide-eyed and startled. It had been a rough day already, he supposed. Jen hugged them to her and smiled. "We're fine, thanks Greg. I don't know what to do about the car and..."

"Well, how about I start by getting us all to the next place that sells hot drinks. Hotel, maybe? Honestly, I don't think you're getting much further today."

Tom looked like he was going to argue, but Jen was having none of it. She actually sagged with relief a little and couldn't agree fast enough. "That would be amazing, thank you so much. I really don't know what we would have done if you hadn't come along."

Greg refrained from agreeing with her, and instead settled back into his seat and returned his attention to the long, foggy road.

# # #

The drive on up the mountain seemed to take forever, but when they finally reached the sanctuary of one of the many hotels and resorts scattered up the road Greg glanced over at the clock and realised it had only been twenty minutes since he picked them up. In normal road conditions he would have done it in under five. In these conditions he was more than grateful to be able to pull off into the busy car park and find a space, even if it was a long way from the doors. The first flakes of snow stung at his face as they picked their way carefully across the tarmac.

Inside the hotel reception it was warm and cosy, with two massive Christmas trees still standing either side of the desk and garlands of holly, tinsel and tiny sparkling fairy lights in matching colours draped all around the room. The receptionist greeted them with a tight, worried smile. "Hi, welcome to the Dee View Resort and Lodges," she said brightly. "Do you have a reservation?"

"We don't," Jen told her, casting another glare in Tom's direction. He decided that discretion was the better part of valour and sloped off towards the hotel bar with the kids in tow and left Jen and Greg to it. "Our car's just come off the road, we're stranded until someone can get it out. I've rung the police and our recovery company, but they don't think they can get anyone out to us today."

The receptionist nodded, and her fingers flew over the keyboard. "I'm sorry about that. The highways agency have already issued travel warnings for the passes for the rest of the day. We have actually had a few cancellations for tonight already, so I can find you something... is it the five of you?"

Greg blinked. "What? Oh, no, I'm just the passing stranger. Just wanted to make sure they're settled in okay."

She looked up at him and then over to the door behind them. "You're planning to go on today?"

"Yeah, I'm heading for Edinburgh." He turned to follow her gaze and found that the few flecks of snow had turned into a near white-out. It was settling on the car park already, and he still had a fair way to climb. "Well, I was."

"I wouldn't recommend travelling on until this has cleared," she said apologetically. "I can find out from the hotels at the pass what conditions are like up there, if you like?"

He rubbed at his face and groaned. "No, it's alright. If you've got rooms..."

"Of course." She turned back to Jen and smiled again. "Just the four of you, then? I have a family room just been cancelled, as it happens."

She got Jen and her family checked into the newly vacated room, then pulled out a ledger from under the desk whilst Jen hurried off towards the bar and her waiting hot drink. Greg leaned on the desk and was lost in thought when the receptionist made a pleased noise. "Yes, there we go. Now we do have rooms available, but if you wouldn't object, we've got a gentleman from London checked in not long before you and took one of the lodges. It's a two bedroom one, and he's said he's willing to share it with another sole gentleman traveller. If you'd be willing to take that, it would mean I can keep as many rooms free as possible."

Another two families had trudged into the reception behind Greg whilst he was waiting, and he doubted they'd be the last. It would be sunset in not many hours, and the snow had got even thicker. "Yeah, that'd be great," he agreed immediately. "I love it when people pull together in a crisis."

She just smiled at him and made a note in her ledger. "I'll get you the key, then, and I'll call him to let him know you're coming. And here's a map of the resort, you're in lodge number 13."

"Lucky me." He accepted the key and the map and glanced back over his shoulder again. "Just out of interest, what's your expert opinion on my chances of getting over the mountains tomorrow?" The look on her face said it all. "Thought so. Good job you've got a bar! Thanks love, you're a diamond."

  
Lodge number 13 was up the hill from the main hotel, one of a long row of beautiful Black Forest style chalets which, on a good day, had a stunning view across the valley from their verandas and the balcony on the master bedroom. So the flier told him, anyway - Greg couldn't see a thing through the blizzard even though the fog had lifted a little. He was grateful for the layer of snow across the car park because it had more grip than the black ice underneath it, but that was about it. He trudged through it to the Disco to grab his smaller overnight bag and fished in the larger one for the bottle of Laphroaig that Margie had given him for Christmas. Once he'd got that safely wrapped in a jumper and ensconced in the middle of his bag in case he took a tumble and landed on his arse, he grabbed a couple of CDs from the glovebox, locked the car up, and picked his way carefully back across the car park and up the path towards the lodges.

Plenty of them were occupied, and rectangles of golden light spilled across the snow from windows and doors. At one lodge he paused to wave at the tiny kids who had their noses pressed to the glass and were watching the snow fall eagerly. They'd have fun, at least.

Finally, he reached number 13, and even in his gloves his fingers fumbled with the key. He managed to get the door open and slipped inside, into the warm, where he shut the door behind him as quickly as he could to let as little of the cold in with him as possible. "Hi," he called out. "Apparently you're..."

The other resident of the lodge had emerged from the other room, presumably the kitchen, and frozen in the doorway. Mycroft Holmes, bane of Greg's holiday, was impeccably dressed in a soft green cashmere jumper and grey slacks that were in complete contrast to the icy personality that lay within. They stared at each other, and eventually Mycroft broke the moment by rolling his eyes and turning on his heel. "Oh for God's sake," Greg heard him mutter.

"The feeling is entirely mutual," Greg told his retreating back. Even so, he couldn't help but laugh, and he reached for his phone to tell Margie where he was, why, and who he'd found there.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Day Before_

The Glendulsie Estate sprawled over a few acres of wild heather moorland and thick forest, sandwiched between the southern end of the loch and the lower slopes of the Cairngorm Mountains. Once upon a time it had been bigger, before it got eaten away by debt and ambition and globalisation. Now the cottages that had housed labourers and tenant farmers were rented out as holiday lets, the only animals they kept were Margie's rare breed sheep, a handful of highland cows, and the ducks and chickens that pecked around the yard between the lodge and the water's edge. The lodge itself was a testament to the age of the estate. It was a rambling jumble of eras, from the central hall built - according to someone from the University of Strathclyde - during the Kingdom of Alba, to the tip of the Victorian neo-Gothic tower. There wasn't a right angle in the place, none of the floors was level, and according to the website it was haunted by at least three ghosts.

Greg loved it.

The loch had frozen over just before Christmas and now hid under the blanket of white, only distinguished from the moors around it by the sudden smoothness of the surface. A sharp chill in the air promised more snow later, but for now the sky was clear and bright, the only cloud visible was the puff of Greg's breath in front of him as he made his way back along the track, hands buried in his pockets against the cold. Somewhere out beyond the house he could hear the kids playing, with the occasional scream that suggested someone had taken a snowball to the chest or had it dropped down the back of their neck. He chuckled to himself, remembering Christmases with his sisters and cousins in years gone by, when his mum used to bring them up on the train from London to help out with the Christmas rush. When he'd got older, he'd been roped into helping out too. He'd learned how to do hospital corners in the bedrooms, how to wait on in the restaurant, and how to cook in the kitchen. The entrance hall with its vast oak staircase and the suit of armour staring blankly down the passage towards the bar was more familiar than his own flat.

He saluted the hollow knight on his way in, stomped snow off his boots, and followed the sound of clinking glass through to the bar, where Margie was humming to herself as she tidied up. Neither of them said a word when he rounded the bar to join her and started stacking the whisky tumblers on their shelf, grouped by brand.

"I was thinking," she said at last, out of the blue, "that I'd get the trees down tonight whilst you're still here to help, if that's alright? David and I can manage them, but it's easier with a spare pair of hands to keep the kids out of the way."

"Sure. We can do it after you've put them to bed." There were a few guests lingering on, but the schools would reopen in two days and the last families had headed south after breakfast. From a house full of playmates, Margie's three now only had each other. He glanced over at the big windows, but there was no sign of them on that side of the house. "Erin must be nearly tall enough to see over the bar by now. Haven't you got her up to speed yet?"

Margie tutted. "She's got enough on her plate just keeping Andrew and Joe from falling in the loch. I'm sure we weren't that much trouble when we were their age."

"Can't have been. Your da would have chucked us in there."

She smiled weakly and rested her hands on the edge of the empty basket. "I worry about them. Maybe it's nostalgia and rose-tinted glasses and all that, but we had such fun. And so often it's just them. I thought we'd be close forever, but since Graham moved down to Edinburgh he's barely come back, Cat and Jess never visit... And I don't have time to come down to London to see you three, not with this place. Even if I closed up, I've still got the estate to look after." Margie shot him a glance from under her lashes. "Not that it's not lovely to have you here, Greg. But I worry about you, too. You've never brought anyone with you."

They'd made it through a week without the subject coming up. He'd take that as a win, even though he'd hoped it wouldn't come up at all. "Margie..."

"I worry, Greg, that's all. What if you fell at home or something? We're not getting any younger."

"Oi! I'm grey, not old. Besides, I have five neighbours and live five minutes’ walk from a hospital. I know Holborn is considered remote but it's not actually the middle of nowhere."

She didn't laugh. "It doesn't seem fair. You spend all your life finding that perfect someone for other people. Surely you must have time for yourself, too?"

Greg smothered a groan. When he'd thrown in the towel with the police and started out as a matchmaker, none of the family had understood. These days they were on board with his job, but out of the four of them only Cat, his twice-divorced younger sister, seemed to accept that the last thing he wanted to do after spending his working day setting up dates for other people was go on one himself. Half his clients were on the rebound from disastrous relationships, so he heard all the stories. One-night stands were so much less hassle. But Margie didn't want to hear that, she just wanted him to turn up one day and tell her to buy a hat for his wedding to some cosy single mother of two who'd drag him up to the Highlands for a relaxing career as an estate handyman or something. She kept sending him job adverts and mentioning friends of hers who were back on the market.

"I only really meet people through work," he told her, trying to fend her off. "It'd be a professional ethics violation. And besides, I know half the divorce lawyers in London, it breaks your faith in marriage, it really does."

Her face fell suddenly, and she looked away. "Yeah, they have that effect."

Greg left off what he was doing to turn to face her. "What's up, Margie? You and David are alright, aren't you?"

"What? Oh God, yeah, we're fine," she assured him with a laugh. "No, it's just... I've got a lawyer coming round this afternoon. One of the big hotel chains wants to buy the place. I've told them I'm not interested, but they're sending him to make the offer formal like."

He shrugged. "So what's the problem? If you're not interested, you're not interested."

"I know, it's just... Lawyers, you know?" She smiled at him weakly. "They make me nervous."

"Want me to come with you?" he offered. "Just as moral support. Nod my head like I know what you're talking about."

To his surprise, Margie was hesitant about his offer. "I'm sure it'll be fine. It's not... It's just a chat. Just... laying the groundwork." She bit her lip and hurried back to what she was doing. "I'll be fine, don't worry about it."

Greg watched her worriedly. "I wasn't worrying at all until you told me not to. What's up, Margie Bargie?"

She laughed at his childhood nickname for her. "It's nothing, really. Dad mortgaged this place to pay for the renovations on the cottages, that's all. It's a big mortgage, but I'm on top of it. We had a good Christmas and this year's bookings are already on track. It's fine."

"But they're offering a lot of money," Greg guessed. When Margie just nodded, he sighed. "You love this place, Margie. You are this place."

She smiled at that. "I know. I'm just worrying needlessly, I'm sure. If you want to come, I'd appreciate the moral support. You're my hero."

Greg chuckled. "See, I'm not just a pretty face. When's he getting here?"

Margie twisted to look at the clock behind the bar. "About forty minutes from now, if he's on time."

"Then we'd better get done here and brew up, hadn't we? Come on, missus, you've got a guest to impress."

# # #

Mycroft Holmes was everything Greg had expected top lawyers to be before he'd started hanging out with them. He wore a tweed suit and a polite but cool smile like he'd been born for both, and even had a pocket square that matched his tie and a watch chain hanging between his waistcoat pocket and a subtle pin. It clearly wasn't an affectation either, there was actually a pocket watch in there. He hung a heavy wool coat that must have cost at least a month of Greg's rent on the coat stand, slipped actual string-backed driving gloves into the pocket, and followed Margie down the short corridor to the bar where Greg was waiting for them.

"Have a seat, please. This is my cousin Gregory. Greg, Mycroft Holmes."

"How do you do." Greg shook his offered hand and kept his grip in the 'firm but affable' range'. "I hope the roads weren't a problem for you."

Holmes smiled at him tightly. "The xDrive dealt with the conditions admirably. Forewarned is, as they always say, forearmed, after all." He took the offered seat and accepted a cup of tea from Margie. “Speaking of forewarned, Mr Lestrade, I didn’t know Mrs Mackenzie’s cousin would be joining us.”

“And I didn’t know she was thinking of selling, so that’s two of us surprised,” Greg told him.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “So you are considering the offer, Mrs Mackenzie?”

“I’ll hear what you have to say, I’m not promising more than that.” She folded her arms and glared at him, Scottish brogue thickening in direct contrast to Holmes’s Home Counties, public-school-educated Queen’s English. “It’s a lot of money your bosses are willing to throw at me for this place, makes me worry about what sort of plans they have for it.”

“You have concerns that we would not be suitable… custodians?”

She snorted. “Is that what you call it? Aye, that’s the long and short of it. Our family’s lived on this moorland for centuries, long as anyone can remember. I don’t want to be the one to see that end anyway, but if you’re thinking of seeing us out and tarmacking over it, it’ll be over my dead body.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Holmes assured her with another thin-lipped smile. “And I can promise you, we have no intentions of tarmacking over anything.” He reached into his briefcase and handed her a few sheets of paper with architects’ sketches and a map of the planned renovation. “As you can see, the development work would be largely within the confines of existing structures, including three cottages that have, shall we say, disappeared over the years. The main hall is listed, as you well know, and any restoration work would be done in a manner which was in keeping with the heritage of the building.”

Greg took the plan from Margie and raised an eyebrow. “Restoration in keeping?” he asked. “There’s an entire extra wing on this plan.”

“Well, if it was good enough for the Victorians,” Holmes said airily. “I believe the intention is for the new wing to be constructed to appear as if it was added by your ancestor at the same time as the western tower. It will allow for the addition of extra bedrooms, the conversion of some of the existing rooms to suites, and for a banqueting suite…”

“Absolutely not.” Margie shoved the paperwork at Greg and sat back in her seat. “This is a family hotel, has been for decades. Kids I grew up with bring their kids now. This isn’t buying a going concern; it’s shutting down and starting from new. This is more than a building, Mr Holmes. You want the history; you’re getting all of it.”

The smile slipped from Holmes’s lips like it had never been there and left his eyes as cold and hard as the lake outside. “Unfortunately, small family hotels are rarely the going concerns they appear to be, Mrs Mackenzie. The mortgage on this place is, after all, considerable.” He pulled another sheet of paper out of his briefcase and skimmed it, then left it on the table where they could both see it. “But if the hotel has returned to profitability sufficient that you will be able to clear the debts…”

“Wait,” Greg said, holding up a hand. “Where did you get those? How the hell do you know all that?”

Next to him Margie shifted uncomfortably. “I imagine it’s all public record.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “But of course. As I understand it, the Accountant in Bankruptcy believed that the transfer of the hotel to you was an attempt by your father to avoid it being taken into account during his application. He sought a minimal asset process, they believed he should have to go down the route of sequestration, in which case the hotel would have been…”

“It was all above board!” Margie insisted, seething next to Greg. She leaned forwards in her chair and shoved the paperwork back towards Holmes. “Dad signed the hotel over to me long before that, years before. He was an employee, not the owner…”

“And the debts are in your sole name,” Holmes said smoothly, “I’m quite aware Mrs Mackenzie. That is why I am here talking to you and not your father, is it not?” He smiled. It wasn’t a kind expression. “I wouldn’t dream of making further enquiries than those that are a matter of public record of course. However…”

He let them fill in the blank and Greg got there quickly. “The public record is pretty detailed for a business.”

“Quite so, Mr Lestrade.”

Margie turned her glare on Greg, which he didn’t think was entirely fair. “We are fine,” she snapped. “It’s been a rough few years, but we’ve turned it around.” She turned back to Holmes. “And I’m thoroughly enjoying it as I always have. This hotel is not for sale, and certainly not to the likes of you.”

“If I may…”

“You absolutely may not.” She shoved the last of the papers back at him across the table. “You may, to borrow a phrase, get out of my pub.”

Holmes smiled, amused, and got to his feet. “I’ll leave you the paperwork to look over, and I will read your annual reports with interest, Mrs Mackenzie.” He inclined his head. “I’ll see myself out and leave you to talk about… things.”

Margie watched him go, chewing on her lower lip, and Greg watched her until her eyes flickered back to him guiltily. The silence settled awkwardly, broken only by the sonorous ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall beyond. When Greg finally reached out to tidy up the abandoned papers she tutted once, then looked away quicky. “So, are we going to talk about things,” he asked, “or chuck this lot on the fire and pretend it didn’t happen?”

“A luxury retreat,” she scoffed. “Like you could get that sort of London snob north of Hadrian’s Wall.”

“You’d struggle to get some of them north of the M25.” Greg rubbed at his face.

"I'm sorry I didn't know about all the... shit."

She laughed bitterly. "I'm sorry you do. We did everything we could to keep it out of the courts, but we won!" Margie glared at the paperwork Holmes had dragged out. "I'm going to dig us out of this. And Mycroft bloody Holmes can shove his offer up his arse and take it back to London with him."


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft regretted his reaction to Lestrade's arrival as soon as it was out of his mouth, but gave himself some leeway as it had been an incredibly trying day. When he'd offered the room out it had been the result of an adrenaline high and sheer, dizzying relief. Call it the spirit of Christmas still clinging on towards the new year. As the rush wore off, he'd begun to hope that no one would take him up on it. After all, who would want to share a lodge with a complete stranger, even if anyone was on the roads still?

It was a summary of his year that not only did someone indeed take him up on his offer, but it was the worst person possible.

He put the kettle on to give himself something to do with his hands and try to take his mind off the pink flush that the cold had brought to the man's face or the tousled scruff of hat hair, or the fact that Gregory Lestrade was devastatingly attractive when he was annoyed.

The kettle clicked off and Mycroft reached for it gratefully, dropping teabags into mugs printed with a rather more cheerful winter scene than the one barely visible out of the window, and the resort's logo secreted tastefully in the corner. He took his own with a single sugar and a splash of milk, and turned to go and locate Lestrade, only to find the man in the doorway watching him with a curious look on his face. "It's only Twining’s, I'm afraid," he said, gesturing to the mugs. "How do you take it?"

"Only Twining’s." Lestrade chuckled and sauntered forwards, that was the only word for it, with his hands in his pocket. "English Breakfast or Earl Grey?"

Mycroft did not react. "Everyday blend."

"Oh, hotel breakfasts," Lestrade said with a rueful smile. "More sugars than I'm comfortable admitting in that case."

"I'll let you sort it." Mycroft took a sip of his own and this time didn't quite manage to smother his grimace. He spotted Lestrade grinning at his reaction out of the corner of his eye. "Such are the penalties we pay for poor planning."

Lestrade snorted. "Tell me about it. I brought the whisky, didn't think to bring a box of PG Tips." He finished adding sugar to the mug at long last and turned to face Mycroft, propping a hip against the counter comfortably. "So, I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft stammered out.

Lestrade grinned over the rim of his mug. "How did you wind up here? I thought you'd have been back in London by now, first class flights down from Inverness right after you saw us or something."

"It's almost like we're complete strangers to each other," Mycroft said, far more mildly than he felt. He took a sip of his tea, didn't grimace this time, and glanced out of the window at the snow. "As it happens, I am rather fond of this part of the country. It is, in fact, why I volunteered to visit your cousin in person. I had not accounted for the imbecility of other drivers, otherwise I would be well on my way to Edinburgh by now."

"Oh shit." Lestrade had looked up suddenly at that, and his expression was concerned. "They didn't hit you?"

"No. The tree was less fortunate."

Lestrade grimaced again, strong fingers wrapping around his mug. "So you ended up playing knight in shining armour too? I had to fish a family out of a ditch."

"Quite." He braved another mouthful of his tea before giving it up as a bad job. "Anyway. You've had a trying journey, so I'll leave you to it. There's two bedrooms upstairs, I've taken the one at the front. By which I mean above the front door. Do make yourself at home."

# # #

Of all the places to be trapped overnight, Mycroft could admit that he'd been fortunate to find this one. What he'd seen of the hotel itself was cosy and traditional without trying too hard, and the lodges were similar. They had resisted the urge to go with the Hygge, but neither were they faux-Caledonian Monarch of the Glen with tartan everywhere. The ground floor had one large sitting room, the kitchen and a dining room with place settings for four and a selection of board games, and the first floor had two good sized bedrooms with an en-suite each. A subtle theme of heather purple and silver carried through from the artsy photograph of deer standing in the mist above the fireplace, to the Christmas decorations tied with a discreet strip of tartan, to the thick rug that covered the polished floorboards. The sofa was deep enough and comfortable enough to sleep on, but thankfully there was also a pair of Chesterfield armchairs in front of the grand oak fireplace with a real log burner. The cheerful assurance that if they lost electricity there were sufficient logs in the store on the deck for at least one day had been less reassuring than it was probably intended to sound.

Mycroft picked his book up from where he'd left it on the sofa and took it to one of the armchairs instead. The tall bookcases either side of the fireplace had a truly bizarre selection of mostly non-fiction and cosy crime, clearly bought as a batch from a secondhand bookshop somewhere with an eye more for the aesthetics than the content. In among the Val McDermid and Ian Rankins and the assorted biographies and fun fact selections, Mycroft had located an inexplicable copy of 'The Industrial Revolution in Yorkshire' which, whilst dry, irrelevant and largely uninteresting, was at least doing a sterling service in taking his mind off his situation.

What it was failing to take his mind off was the clattering from the kitchen now Lestrade was back downstairs. He'd only gone up for a few minutes, and then returned to turn out every cupboard twice by the sounds of it. Every so often a curse drifted through, underlined by another door banging shut. Mycroft forced his jaw to relax again and read over the same paragraph for the third time, but at the next curse he finally got to his feet and stormed to the kitchen. "Whatever you're looking for, it clearly isn't in there," he snapped. "If you must look again, could you at least do so quietly."

Lestrade, who was kneeling on the floor in front of the cupboards, glared up at him for a second, then held his hands up. "Right, fine." He got to his feet somewhat gracelessly and grabbed his car keys off the counter. "I'll leave you in peace."

He brushed past Mycroft on his way to the door, almost like he couldn't decide whether he was petty enough to barge properly. If he had been debating it, he had evidently chosen to be an adult instead, and laced up his boots without a word before heading back out into the snow. Mycroft spared a moment to give the rapidly fading light and bitter cold a baleful glare before he returned to the warmth of his armchair and the distraction of his book.

Before long though, even the Enclosure Act wasn't keeping his attention. He found himself staring into the cold fireplace like the Dickensian character he sometimes worried he was turning into, contemplating it in a vaguely wistful manner that was dangerously close to forcing him out onto the deck to find the promised log store. Rather than travel back in time completely, he fetched his phone from the coffee table and flipped through his messages - all work apart from one notification that Sherlock's housemate had updated his blog. Curiosity kept him from setting it back down immediately. Lestrade was, after all, not a common name. Greg Lestrade was, apart from being distractingly attractive, clearly single, self-employed, a London native despite his family roots in Scotland and France, engaged in some form of employment that involved event and schedule management as well as dealing with people, and a casual player of both football and the guitar. That much, at least, was obvious. And a man with his own business involved in dealing with people and events must have a website. It was only logical to find out what sort of business that was precisely.

Mycroft couldn't hold back a snort of derision when he found Lestrade's website – as an advert rather than having to scroll as far as the first result. Full of glowing testimonials and the occasional photograph of a happy couple, and a professionally done photograph of Lestrade himself which, admittedly, made him look like the sort of warm, trustworthy personality who rescued families out of ditches and would absolutely set you up for a life of happily married bliss with your soulmate.

The main page, apart from the photograph of Lestrade, included photos of three couples - one mixed sex couple on a date, one of two women with an adorable child of indeterminate gender, and one of two men with a bouncing russet springer spaniel. Greg Lestrade would, he assured the reader, understand your situation and desires, and find the person who could help to build the future you'd dreamed of.

Mycroft wondered if Lestrade believed any of it himself. He hadn't seemed this twee on either of the occasions they'd met.

He skimmed through a couple of the other pages to find Lestrade's 'about me' page, then forced himself to drop the phone and go back to his book. The practicalities of matchmaking were of less than no interest to him, and he had never desired any sort of future that involved another human being on anything more than a casual basis. Sex was a pleasurable pastime, love was a delusion, and other people were a sadly unavoidable nuisance. Certainly not something to be actively sought out. And as for marriage... He tutted, sounding more like his mother than he was comfortable with, and ignored the nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him that she was just worried about him. That was the worst thing about happily married couples, of course - they assumed that everyone who wasn't married was automatically miserable.

Mycroft picked up his book, stretched his legs out and settled down in his armchair to prove them wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

Night had long since fallen, and still the snow kept coming. Under the silvery white glow of high-powered LED streetlights, the car park was an undulating carpet of white with only the occasional flash of colour and barely a footprint disturbing the even blanket. It was softer now, with big fluffy feathers drifting down from the darkness to sparkle in the light until they finally settled. The whole world was muffled. No cars on the road now, no crunch of footsteps in the snow, just the occasional creak from the trees up the valley sides and the distant, barely audible drift of music from the bar behind him. Greg closed his eyes and, for a moment, tuned out even those small noises and let the isolation carry him away.

Eventually the cold and the weight of the bags in his hand and over his shoulder forced him to turn away from the mountains and begin the climb back up to the lodge, where only the slightest chink of light around the edge of the curtains indicated that Holmes was still up, and Greg was surprised to realise when he checked his watch that it wasn't yet seven o'clock. Winter in the mountains was deceptive.

He knocked before letting himself in anyway, and stomped the snow off his boots as quietly as he could, mindful of their earlier argument. "Just me," he told Holmes, somewhat unnecessarily as the man was looking at him from his seat by the unlit fire. He looked curious, rather than as irritated as he might have been, and Greg held the bags up in answer. "I went to the store, felt like cooking. Got enough for two if you fancy it?"

Now Holmes did look surprised. He appeared to consider the idea, then checked the time and scowled at his watch. "Good heavens," he murmured. "How time flies when you're having fun. Thank you, I hadn't even considered it."

"Night creeps up on you when it goes dark this early." Greg finally gave in and put his bags down to get his boots off. "I got salmon, but I can probably rustle up something vegetarian if you prefer?"

"Salmon sounds excellent. Locally caught, I take it?"

Greg chuckled. "Of course. The store here is actually really good, all local produce and very well stocked." He sighed as he straightened up again. "That's the good news."

Holmes tilted his head. "And the bad news?"

"We're going to need it. I had a word with Kiera at reception, she reckons the roads won't reopen until the day after tomorrow at the earliest. The forecast is changing constantly, but they're saying at least one more big dump of snow overnight, then poor conditions throughout tomorrow." He shrugged. "Not a lot we can do about it. But..." Greg fished in the bag and pulled out the box of tea. "A peace offering?"

Holmes got to his feet at last and crossed the room to accept the box and study it. A small smile curled his lips, the first genuine one Greg thought he'd seen. "Dark Grey," Holmes commented. "Lucky guess?"

"Just lucky in general. It was the only thing they had that wasn't either a bizarre novelty tin or Tetley. I don't know about you, but I didn't fancy the heather tea." He left Holmes holding the tea and carried on through to the kitchen with his purchases. "I got stuff in for breakfast, too, but your choice is a Full Scottish, cornflakes or the hotel restaurant."

Holmes hovered in the doorway, looking between him and the tea. "Thank you. You didn't have to."

"And you didn't have to offer up your spare room to a stranger. Offering to cook is the least I can do. Besides," he added, crouching down to retrieve the pans and baking tray he'd found earlier, "you're doing me a favour, really. I don't get to cook for other people often."

"You aren't a frequent host?"

Greg laughed. "Nah. I had a choice between dinner parties and a Zone 1 flat. Still not sure I chose right, but I've been living there four years now." He looked over at Holmes and gestured at the tea. "You want a brew?"

Holmes cleared his throat. "I'll make them," he offered. "Would you care for one?"

"Sure." The conversation lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, and he fished for something to say whilst he prepared the salmon. It seemed the natural choice of subject in the end. "The fishmongers in London are alright, but you don't get salmon down there like you do up here. When it's good it's a bit pretentious, not 'here's something we just yanked out of the river', you know?"

"I wouldn't want anything that had just been 'yanked' out of the Thames."

Greg chuckled. "Tell me about it. Went in there a couple of times when I was with the police. Second time I thought, that's it. I wasn't sticking around for the third. You ever been in?"

"In the Thames?" Holmes stared at him. "I... no..."

"Good choice, don't recommend it. Apparently the crayfish from upstream are pretty good, but you have to go a long way past Oxford." He gestured at Holmes with the honey spoon. "You're a London boy, too? Posher end of it than me. Harrow or Eton?"

Holmes shot him a glare. "Westminster, as a day boy. I was under the impression you were local here."

"What, with this accent? Nah, Mum came south in the sixties. Wanted to be a model, ended up working in a department store." He huffed. "Admittedly it was Harrod's, but still."

The surprised, wry smile hovered at the edge of Holme's lips again, and Greg noticed absently how much more attractive he was when he was relaxed, before kicking himself internally. "Don't tell me," Holmes said, "you actually are a Harrow boy?"

"I had a view of their cricket fields from one of my bedroom windows as a kid, if that counts?" That actually got a laugh, which he chalked up as a win. "Always thought I'd move north as soon as I could, if I'm honest. I hated London."

"You haven't had the chance yet?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "’Course I have. Came up the summer I turned 18 and stayed. Ended up back in London by the new year. Rural Scotland isn't all it's cracked up to be, it turns out."

Holmes raised both eyebrows this time. "Your cousin clearly disagrees."

The silence that followed was anything but comfortable. Greg wrenched the drawer open harder than he'd intended to fish out the peeler. "You know, I'd nearly managed to forget you did that to her. And now I'm pissed off all over again."

"I'm not going to apologise for being good at my job," Holmes told him coolly, which was somehow even more irritating. "I deal in reality rather than fantasy, and anyone who runs a business should be aware of exactly what information about them is on the public record. Gut instinct and intuition are a poor basis for long-term decision making."

Greg opened his mouth to argue back but closed it as the familiar, if paraphrased, words rang home. "Wait... is that from my website? Did you look me up?"

"Of course. I found it quite charming that a man like yourself can still have such faith in... romance," he said, dismissively enough to get his point across quite clearly. "It was enlightening."

"Why, were you thinking of asking me for advice?" The look of dawning horror on Holmes's face was a joy to behold, and Greg let it spin out as long as he could before he couldn't fight back his grin any longer. "Don't tell me. Married to your job, thinking of getting a cat or two and moving from Zone 4 into Zone 1 to reduce your commute and spend more time at the British Museum?"

Holmes blinked. "Zone 2, actually."

"Close enough. St John's Wood?" Greg returned his attention to the potato he was peeling. "Membership at Lord's?"

Holmes scoffed. "Hardly. But how the hell did you know about the cat?"

"I didn't, but if you'd said you weren't planning on it, I would have started trying to convince you. Some people are just made for cats." He rolled one shoulder and, despite everything, smiled to take the sting out of it. "No judgement here. Bachelorhood is a lot simpler. Even if it's bloody expensive in London."

The cold, calculating look was back on Holmes's face, and Greg felt like he was being dissected. "I imagine that with your family background, you would be cautious about entering any long-term relationship that involved cohabitation. Still, it must be difficult leaving your cats. How fortunate that you have such a compassionate neighbour. She'd say yes if you asked her out."

Greg's blood ran cold, and he realised he was gripping tight to the peeler. "That is... how the fuck do you know that?" he demanded. "And don't give me any shit about the public domain, because that's..."

"I wouldn't insult your intelligence. But that is what I do, Mr Lestrade." He smiled pleasantly, which was somehow more chilling than the sneer. "I can't 'switch it off', you might say. It's an unfortunate obstacle in interpersonal relationships, to be able to read one’s acquaintances so easily. But a gift to a lawyer, as I'm sure you can understand."

Greg cycled through several responses and ended up just feeling vaguely sad. "What, have you never met anyone and... I don't know. Seen something worth sticking around for?"

The look Holmes gave him was almost pitying. "Imagine knowing what you're going to get for Christmas every year, and that most of the time it's coal." He smiled strangely. "Keeps you warm for one night but makes a mess if you let it linger too long."

Greg opened his mouth, closed it again, and dropped the last potato into the pan. "Speaking of which, I'm going to fetch in a couple of logs for the fire." He shook his head when Holmes couldn’t contain a startled laugh and couldn't help smiling back. "And my cats are called Tybalt and Mercutio, by the way, in case you weren't able to figure that bit out."

# # #

Greg pulled himself to his feet with a hand on the mantelpiece and a grunt of effort and turned to find Holmes watching him from the doorway with a glass of whisky in each hand. He scrubbed a hand through his hair self-consciously and jabbed the other in the direction of the now crackling fire. "It'll take a while to get going properly, but..."

"It's quite alright," Holmes assured him. "My parents still have an open fire. Alas, the legislation doesn't permit such things in London."

"Yeah, wasn't that because the smoke killed quite a lot of people?" Greg accepted the glass he was offered and sniffed it curiously. "Tallisker?"

"You know your whisky."

He grinned. "There has to be some advantage to being born with one foot in the loch. Cheers."  
"Slàinte," Holmes returned. He looked up again and seemed startled to see Greg standing so close to him. Their eyes caught, possibly for the first time since they'd met, and he stumbled over his thoughts for a second. "I... a peace offering," he said at last. "Tis the season of peace and goodwill for another few days, after all."

"You didn't need to," Greg told him.

Holmes smiled. "And you didn't need to do dinner, but you did, and I am grateful. And if we are to be stranded here on the side of a mountain with only each other's company, a well-stocked wood pile, several bottles of excellent whisky, the most bizarre book selection I've ever encountered, and a conveniently located bar and shop to keep us going for however many hours..." His smiled softened again when Greg laughed, and he raised his glass again. "We can at least avoid adding to their collection of murder mysteries."

"It is a fairly random selection, isn't it?" Greg dragged his gaze away from Mycroft's at last and ran his eyes down the shelves. "Nearly as bad as you'd find in IKEA."

"I will have to take your word for that." Holmes took a sip of his whisky when Greg looked back at him and raised one eyebrow eloquently. "I hope I do not strike you as the sort of person who puts together flat pack furniture."

He grinned. "You mean you've never put the legs on the wrong side of a chair? You're missing out. It's like a 3D jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. Surely that's everyone's idea of fun." His eyes landed on the book Holmes had left out and he nodded at it. "Or is it because they don't do a scale model of the SS Great Eastern yet?"

Holmes looked back at him sharply, eyes narrowing in either surprise or confusion. "Why the Great Eastern?"

"You can't guess?"

"I do not guess," Holmes scoffed. He rolled his eyes when Greg waited anyway and looked him up and down. "I'm afraid if it's a pop culture reference since 1958 it has likely bypassed me."

Greg grinned back. "Not the invention of Lego, or the Munich Air Disaster... Must be an ending so it's not Blue Peter." The look of astonishment on Holmes's face was the most fun he'd had all year. "And you're not up yourself enough to think that admitting women to the House of Lords was some cultural watershed after which everything went downhill."

"Thank you. I think."

"The death of Ralph Vaughan Williams," Greg guessed.

Holmes inclined his head once more with narrowed eyes. "And you either collect stamps or attend some particularly intensive pub quizzes."

"You're ruling out both?" He realised that they were gazing at each other again and he took a sip of his drink, letting his eyes slip closed to break the moment. "It was the quiz league," he admitted in the end. "But I got into stamps as research. They're a surprisingly expensive hobby."

The rumble of laughter had a warming effect not dissimilar to the whisky and the fire. "I think any hobby becomes expensive once you commit yourself fully." When he opened his eyes, Holmes's darted away to the bookshelves and he licked his lips. "I find books a self-limiting hobby. One never has quite enough bookshelves."

Greg chuckled. "See, that's where IKEA comes in."

The glare Holmes shot him was without bite. "Quite," he murmured dismissively. "Now, as the evening stretches before us, may I make a suggestion?"

He blinked hard, coming up with several suggestions himself that he immediately dismissed, and nodded warily. "But if it's Cluedo, I'm out."

"Thank goodness. I was actually going to suggest that we repair to the fire with the rest of this bottle and a book or two and ignore each other until the fire goes out and it's no longer rude to retire to bed." Holmes raised an eyebrow again. "Although I did find something called Ker-Plunk in the dining room."

"I prefer your first idea," Greg told him. Actually, it sounded like a pretty perfect way to spend a snowy evening, and Holmes was surprisingly high on his list of people he wouldn't mind being stuck with despite the whole lot of everything. He didn't say that, though, just gestured vaguely at the bookcase. "I think I spotted one on Australian steam locomotives, but if that proves too thrilling for me there's always Mycology of the Cairngorms."

"I don't know how you'll handle the excitement." Holmes turned away from him at last and crossed the living room in long, languid strides to place his glass and the bottle on the table between the two armchairs. "There's also a rather nice Folio edition of A Narrative of the Voyage of HMS Beagle. Upside down." He glanced over at Greg again and smiled ruefully. "If we're trapped here more than a couple of days, I may be forced to reorganise the whole thing."

Greg reached out and turned the book over, sliding it right back into the same spot between a guide to not killing houseplants and a murder mystery. "Well, we've made a start."

The look he got in response was, quite frankly, the one he deserved. Holmes was doing his best to hide a smile beneath a contemptuous glare, but once he settled into his armchair, he had to attempt to smother it with his glass. "Do pick a book, then we can get on with the serious business of ignoring each other."

He did as he was told, but with a well-thumbed copy of The Major Works of Oscar Wilde, because the book on steam trains was still in his car. Mycroft Holmes did not need to know that about him.


	5. Chapter 5

The evening had passed quietly, the silence broken only by the occasional huff of amusement from Mycroft's unexpected companion, the crackle of the fire and, eventually, the barely-there accompaniment of Vaughan Williams drifting through from the kitchen where Mycroft had set a playlist running and left his phone on charge. Considering the turn his day had taken at lunch it was a surprising bliss, and having turned in before midnight Mycroft found himself awake and unusually well-rested at seven.

His room had a view out over the valley beyond, and before he did anything else, he pulled aside the curtain to peek out like he had when he was a child. It was still dark, but there was more than enough light from the lamps down the path to see that he would not be continuing his journey that day. The promised snowfall had done its job, smoothing out the contours and blending the world into one undulating flow. He let the curtain fall again and tried to pretend that there wasn't a small, giddy part of him that just wanted to send Sherlock a photograph as soon as it was light enough, and that there wasn't a larger if somewhat less giddy part of him that was relieved to be trapped with Lestrade for another day at least. He would admit to pleased anticipation at the thought of another day of enforced leisure, nothing more.

He allowed himself to drift downstairs, luxuriating under the shower for far longer than he would have at home, and restricted himself to just checking the weather forecast for the area before texting his assistant to inform her of the situation and make it quite clear that he was completely out of office. It was rare for work to be completely unable to contact him, but it would do them good to think for themselves from time to time. And, if he were honest with himself, it would do him good to let them. As long as they didn't completely mess things up...

To stave off that line of thought and the inevitable catastrophising, Mycroft busied himself with poking through the cupboards to find the cafetiere and a surprisingly good tin of coffee hiding behind the surprisingly dreadful tea. He had his hands wrapped around his first mug and the gentle warmth of caffeine seeping into his system when Lestrade stumbled into the kitchen, yawning hugely and knocking Mycroft's world completely off-kilter.

He’s accepted that the man was devastatingly attractive when he was angry and delectably appealing when he was quietly contented, but sleep-rumbled and soft he was other-worldly. His silver hair stood up in all directions like someone had been running their hands through it, his stubble was a dark shadow across his jaw, and his long-sleeved T shirt left almost everything to the imagination, an invitation Mycroft's mind had apparently seized onto with glee. Thankfully, he was still blinking the sleep from his eyes when Mycroft finally managed to wrestle his brain back into the real world, and if he noticed anything strained about Mycroft's smile he didn't let on. "Morning," he rumbled in a voice so low and thick it was practically a purr. "You sleep alright?"

"Perfectly," Mycroft managed to force out before Lestrade, now heading for the counter, stretched and revealed the slimmest sliver of bare skin at his waist. "Coffee. There's coffee if you'd like it." He took a mouthful of his own and dragged his gaze to the window and the soft blossoming dawn. "Did you? Sleep well, I mean."

Lestrade groaned with pleasure, which did not help Mycroft's already unsteady grip on his own sanity one little bit. "God yeah. That bed is amazing. It's like sleeping on a cloud."

In a desperate attempt to reinstate reason, Mycroft followed that train of thought to the weather. Of course, that led to thinking about being stuck in the lodge with Lestrade for at least another day. He licked his lips and concentrated on the weather forecast. "You were right about the snowfall overnight, and the forecast is for more throughout the day. I can't see us leaving today."

"Damn. And I didn't even pack my snowboard." Lestrade finally turned back to face Mycroft with his mug of coffee clutched against his chest, and a soft, wry smile on his lips. "Ker-Plunk, then?"

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "I hope that Ker-Plunk is once again code for sitting and reading our books like the refined gentlemen we clearly are."

"Speak for yourself, sunshine," Lestrade laughed. "I'm firmly a miserable old bastard. But yeah. Breakfast first, though. Unless you've eaten?"

"I haven't. And I must confess, I have never knowingly eaten a Full Scottish." Mycroft looked back to the window when Lestrade laughed and drummed his fingers on his mug. "Actually, I was considering trying the restaurant tonight, if we can make it over there. Abuse my company credit card some more since my employer has so kindly come to our rescue. Google informs me that their steak is excellent."

Lestrade grinned over his shoulder at him. "Yeah? That sounds great, thanks. What do they make of you being stranded up here?"

"I was supposed to be attending a meeting in Edinburgh before I flew back. Obviously, that has been cancelled." He smiled against his mug. "I may have suggested that the internet access here is unreliable, but I did make clear that I haven't actually tested it."

"Yeah? I'd expect lawyers to read between the lines on that one."

He shrugged. "My assistant knows how to contact me in an emergency, but there are very few of those between Christmas and New Year. It would have been an opportunity to catch up on paperwork, nothing more."

"Ah, yeah. Bit of a dead zone for me too," Lestrade admitted. "I'll be deluged after New Year with the resolutions, though, but that's mostly emails and a couple of phone consultations."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sounds delightful."

"It's not so bad. I get invited to a lot of weddings over the summer. Never go to them, but it's nice to be thought of." He got started on breakfast as he spoke, moving with the easy, graceful confidence of someone utterly at home in a kitchen. "Makes up for spending half of January with people crying on my shoulder."

"And February scrambling for restaurant reservations?" Mycroft guessed.

Lestrade laughed again. "Not a chance. I book them up in March, then release the ones I don't need at the last minute. They get snapped up fast enough. Good excuse to spend nine months eating my way around London, though."

"And with your experience, I imagine your recommendations are more than reliable." He finished his coffee and set his mug aside, then regretted having nothing to occupy his hands. "I must confess that I am rather a creature of habit. I should broaden my horizons."

"Well, if you ever need advice, I'm happy to give it." Lestrade's pause was only momentary, but it spoke volumes. "Wouldn't mind company when I'm on the hunt, either, if you're ever in an adventurous mood."

Mycroft had been expecting it, and yet still found himself surprised by the invitation. "I can think of worse ways to pass an evening," he admitted, "and worse company in which to do it."

# # #

Dinner was as good as Mycroft had promised. They shared a bottle of wine to accompany truly excellent steaks and lingered in the bar afterwards with glasses of Scotch to wait out another brief flurry of snow. When it had blown itself out it had covered over the footprints up and down the path to the lodge and left behind another pristine blanket. Greg tucked his hands in his pockets and tipped his head back, and his breath caught in his throat when he spotted the glimmer of stars in the scrap of dark sky between the clouds. "The weather might be breaking at last."

"So it seems," Mycroft agreed, and Greg was sure he was imagining a wistful note to his voice. "For now, at least."

Greg hummed agreement and dropped his gaze to his feet to concentrate on the icy path. The snow had been compacted over and over again through the day, and the latest fall was only a thin layer over the icy surface. He'd been pleasantly surprised when Mycroft had pulled on a good pair of walking boots to leave the lodge instead of Oxfords and got a sharp smirk for it. "To fail to prepare is to prepare to fail," he'd said, with a gesture at Greg's own ancient boots. "And that is why we were the knights in shining armour instead of in a ditch."

His foot still slipped when he found a particularly icy patch, and although he caught himself on the handrail the solid pressure of Mycroft's hand landed in the small of his back a moment later. "Watch your foot here," he said, probably unnecessarily, whilst trying to fight down the blush that small contact had caused. "Once is an accident, two of us would be embarrassing."

Mycroft's hand lingered longer than he expected before dropping away. "Thank you for the warning. And the example."

"It's a service I provide." Despite his commitment to the service, he moved to the side of the path where the snow was deeper and less compacted and the grip was better, and they made it back to the lodge safely.

They'd let the fire burn down before they went out, but the room was still shockingly warm after the snow, and Greg shed both his thick wool coat and his jumper before leaning against the wall to get his boots off. They landed beside Mycroft's with a solid thump. "Thanks for tonight," he said, running a hand through his hair to get it back in some semblance of order. "The whole thing, really. It's been the break I didn't know I needed."

"Quite," Mycroft agreed quietly. When Greg turned, he found the other man watching him intensely, but he looked away quickly. "Sometimes fate surprises us."

Greg tilted his head curiously. "Our wills and fates do so contrary run, that our devices still are overthrown," he murmured.

"Good lord." Mycroft's eyes dropped to Greg's lips, and widened slightly when he licked them. "Hamlet. Do you know, I don't think I've ever wanted to bend someone over and fuck them quite as much as I do right now."

Heat shot through him, along with overwhelming gratitude to whoever and whatever he owed for this. He looked Mycroft up and down languidly and allowed himself to smile slowly. "What's stopping you?"

He paused, eyes flickering over Greg again, and managed to smooth over his surprise with a cool look of mild, thoughtful contemplation. "Middle age and the convenient proximity of a perfectly comfortable bed. This, however..." And then he took Greg's face in both hands and kissed the smirk off it quite thoroughly.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft woke late and alone, and it took him a while to remember why that came as a surprise. His limbs were heavy with a lazy, contented lethargy and he ached in a deep and satisfying way. It had been a long time, too long really, since he'd taken someone to bed just for the enjoyment of it, and time with Gregory had been very enjoyable. Perhaps too enjoyable. Already his treacherous imagination was running wild with the idea of repeating the performance, even going so far as to conjure up images of dinner dates and, heaven forbid, mornings.

He forced the thought from his mind and dragged himself out of bed and into the shower, where the heat dispelled the lingering aches and the steam cleared his head so that he could think rationally. They had both made their positions quite clear. Even if Mycroft were interested in anything more than a casual friendship, which he most certainly wasn't, Gregory has a clear preference for bachelorhood. They were worlds apart, besides. Mycroft preferred a quiet evening at his club whilst Gregory was working in trendy bars and fashionable restaurants, and the idea of Gregory Lestrade at any of the City dinners and awards ceremonies that Mycroft was forced to attend as his employer's representative was...

Far too appealing.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at himself and stalked to the window to throw back the curtains. Bright sunshine gleamed off the crisp white snow from a sapphire blue sky. On the opposite hillside a single row of pine trees marched up in a straight line from the road to the crest of the hill, and already the slopes below them were filled with families making the most of the weather with toboggans and even skis and snowboards. Further up the valley he could just make out the line of the ski lift at the next resort, in motion for the first time since they got there. The valley had burst back to life, and it was high time for him to leave its sanctuary.

Lestrade was in the kitchen already, wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee and already browsing through the sport pages. He'd left the rest of the paper on the other side of the small kitchen table, next to Mycroft's coffee, and looked up with a strangely nervous smile. "Morning," he said, dropping his gaze back to his paper. "Sleep well?"

"Apparently so." Mycroft took the other seat and fished for the business pages. "Today's paper?"

He hummed affirmation. "I went over to the store when I got up. Fancied kippers but they don't have them in. The road opened this morning, though, so they had the paper in."

"I see. Anything interesting?"

"Gunners lost again." Lestrade lifted his eyes to smile at Mycroft. "Fair few pictures of the snow up this way, too. Other than that, it was a quiet news day."

Mycroft returned his smile before casting an eye over the front page of the business section. It was, as Lestrade had said, a quiet one. Everyone was still in the post-Christmas slump and wouldn't return to their offices until after the weekend. He sought out the weather forecast instead. "And the weather is set fair for the next few days at least."

"Yeah, seems that way." Lestrade realised belatedly how disappointed he sounded and managed another wry smile. "I guess I'd better push on to Edinburgh, or Graham will drink all the schnapps before I get there."

"Quite," Mycroft agreed. "And I should return to London. I dread to think what fires will be on my desk by now."

Lestrade laughed. It lit up his entire face, and the lines at the corners of his eyes creased deeply. When he turned his gaze to Mycroft the smile stayed in his eyes. "I know it feels like longer, but you've only been stuck with me two days."

"You would be amazed how much trouble a particularly determined legal assistant can cause if given unrestricted access to a photocopier and a holepunch. If we're lucky they limit themselves to photocopying parts of their anatomy." He couldn't stop himself smiling when Lestrade laughed again. "Although at least the interns have probably enjoyed the opportunity to sleep off their hangovers and prepare for New Year's Eve."

"Christ, that's tomorrow." Lestrade rubbed at his stubbled jaw and hid a rueful smile in his hand. "You got plans down in London?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Nothing thrilling, as I'm sure you can guess. I have every intention of being asleep before the fireworks."

"You'd hate my plans then. I've done Hogmanay in Edinburgh since Graham moved there for uni. I used to do the rounds for first footing, before I went grey." He ran a hand through his hair again and pulled a face. "We'll be up until dawn and still regretting it by the time I make it back to London."

"Sounds like hell," Mycroft agreed mildly. "Although I have always been tempted by Up Helly Aa. Perhaps if there were fewer other people there."

Lestrade was grinning behind his hand again. "I think you'd enjoy Hogmanay. You can watch the fire parade and the fireworks without going on the waltzers, you know."

Mycroft didn't dignify that with a response, just picked up the culture section with a huff. "I should probably be on my way soon," he said, as casually as he could manage. "I'd rather not lose the light before I'm in Edinburgh, at least. And your cousin will be wondering where you are."

"He really won't," Lestrade groaned. "He knows exactly where I am."

"And with whom?"

"Yup. And their dad's going to be there, too. That's going to be a fun conversation."

Mycroft nodded. "I... apologise for my indelicacy in that matter. I did believe you were aware of..."

"I get it," Lestrade said shortly, cutting him off. "I would have assumed that too, but here we are. Look, I'll have a word with Graham, and with Margie. See if I can get to the bottom of it."

He bristled. "I do not need you to act as an agent in this matter. It would be completely..."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I'm not doing this to help you. I just want to know how far up the creek she's been left." They avoided looking at each other for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, until Lestrade folded the paper decisively and got to his feet. "I'm going to clear out and head for the hills. Are you sure I can't..."

"Everything is sorted," Mycroft told him shortly. He looked up at the wrong moment and caught sight of a familiar longing on Lestrade's face before he could hide it. "Thank you for your company," he managed. "It made a trying situation quite enjoyable in the end."

He got a rueful grin in return. "We're not going to look each other up in London, are we?"

"I think it would be for the best if we left things as they are, don't you?"

He tried to be relieved when Lestrade simply agreed and left him to his paper, but the regret was vindication for his decision.

# # #

"Bit posh, that thing," Graham commented from the doorway whilst Greg locked up the Discovery and picked his way carefully up the garden path. "And it still couldn't manage a bit of snow?"

"It was more than a bit." Greg handed Graham the customary bottle of Scotch. "There, my token is paid. Now can I get in out of the cold?"

His cousin rolled his eyes. "Southern pansy. Come on, Kel's got the kettle on." He closed the door behind them and let Greg find his way down to the kitchen. "Kids are out already; doubt we'll see them before tomorrow afternoon now. They're feral."

Kelly, Graham's eternally patient second wife, greeted Greg with a hug and a very welcome cup of tea. "So glad you made it at last, Greg. Those blizzards looked bad. Graham said you were waiting it out somewhere up the glen?"

"Yeah, not far from Glenshee." He considered broaching the subject of Mycroft and realised that he hadn't the first idea what he'd say, so he left it where it was. "It's the other idiots on the road you have to worry about. The Disco could handle it, but I had to fish a family out of a ditch. The bloke wasn't even wearing a proper coat."

She tutted. "People think that all this new-fangled technology will keep them safe, don't they? Margie's still snowed in up there. Reckons she could make it out if she needed to, but she's well supplied and none of the guests are leaving before next week, so they've just hunkered down to sit it out. The kids are loving it. We should go up there sometime this year," she told her husband, who just grunted at her. "Oh come on, we've not been up in ages. The kids are bigger every time we see them."

"We'll see," was all he'd say on the matter. He pulled out a kitchen chair and dropped into it, kicking one out for Greg to join him. "We'll see if she's still there."

Greg sighed. "She's told you about the offer?"

Graham shrugged. "It's a lot of money. Time will tell if she's too stubborn to accept it. If it's even still on the table."

"I can't believe you ended up stranded with him." Kelly sat down on Greg's other side and set a plate of biscuits down on the table between them, from which Graham immediately snagged the Jammy Dodgers despite her pointed glare. "What's he like, apart from completely up himself? Did you just avoid each other?"

There was the question Greg really didn't know how to answer, so he answered the easier one. "It was alright, actually. Decent collection of books, and we managed to read through a fair chunk of it between us. Nice to have the chance, to be honest. It's hard to make time like that without it being forced on you."

"So what is he like? Margie talks about him like he's the second coming of Satan. Or worse, the English." Her eyes drifted over Greg a little too knowingly. "But he's alright? When he's not at work, I suppose. Not being a lawyer."

Greg shrugged like it didn't matter, like he wasn't having to choose between descriptions like fascinating, gorgeous, funny, a calming presence, or 'so good in bed I'm going to be thinking about it for at least weeks, possibly the rest of my life'. "Yeah, he's alright," he admitted in the end. "Quiet sort. Rescues stranded travellers from the side of the road and offers his spare room up to strangers to make up for being genuinely kind of frighteningly good at his job."

"Lawyers. You have to put salt across the door to stop them coming in." Kelly glanced over at Greg again and reached for her tea. "So do you think she'll go for it?"

They both shook their heads and Graham jerked his head towards the window, in the direction of his dad's small flat. "She'd see it as letting Ma down. Daft old bugger still has his claws in her, even now."

"You knew about the debt, then?"

"Yeah. Told her she shouldn't take it on, but she was determined." He sighed. "And Erin's keen, too, so that's it sealed. Your lawyer could offer her twice that and she wouldn't take it."

"He's not my lawyer," Greg protested, because it stung a bit in ways he wasn't about to let on. "I borrowed him for a couple of days, that's all. Salt line reinstated and everything."

"Whatever. She won't take it. She's talking about opening a little distillery when she's a bit more settled and all sorts." He smiled ruefully. "I might be persuaded back for that."

Greg laughed. "Yeah right. You could never leave Edinburgh. You can't even move to bloody Leith!"

Kelly gave him a look he couldn't quite understand. "You never know," she said airily. "Couple of years and we'll be empty nesters. We'll have to sell this place to pay for their uni accommodation."

He spotted an opportunity to change the subject and seized on it gratefully. A gentle nudge and Kelly was gushing about the girls, proud of ever of her stepdaughters, and the conversation flowed on to nightfall.

Graham cornered him in the living room whilst Kelly was changing, and Greg knew he was back on the hook. They filled their hipflasks from the bottle Greg had brought, and Graham kept his eyes on what he was doing whilst he spoke. "You're a hopeless case, you know that London?"

He chuckled despite himself. "So you've been telling me since we were about twelve. What have I done this time?"

"The lawyer, for a start. Are you ever going to go for someone who actually wants you back?" He capped off Greg's flask and handed it back to him. "That's the problem with liking them unattainable, you never get to keep them."

"Look, when I need a kitchen fitting, I'll ask your advice." Greg took the bottle off Graham and poured himself a glass. "I know what I'm looking for, and unattainable suits me fine."

Graham sighed. "You just like the fantasy."

"Exactly! Why buy a book when you can join the library and all that? I like the idea of romance, but once you get past the reality is all a bit messy for me." He took a sip to buy himself time to think and convince himself he was telling the truth. "I need a housemate, though. The cost is the single downside to bachelorhood."

His cousin did not look impressed by his argument. "This is why you went grey at thirty-six you prick."

Kelly clattered downstairs at that moment, wrapped up in a thick Christmas jumped covered with flashing LEDs. "What do you think?" she asked gleefully as the fireworks exploded across her chest. "Festive, isn't it?"

"It's hideous," Greg told her honestly, "and I love it. Where can I get one?" He downed the last of his glass and let Kelly drag them out into the crowded streets and tried to put Mycroft from his mind before the end of the year.


	7. Chapter 7

Returning to London after two weeks in Scotland was always a shock to the system, and a reminder of why he'd never actually drifted north. The first sight of the grand arched span of Kings Cross station and the bustling crowds around the pop-up market on the forecourt outside swept him up into the capital's unending throng and the relentless energy. He cut it fine, as always, left himself with lots to do and not enough time to do it, just the way he liked it. For the month running up to Valentine's Day he was kept constantly busy, filling up his diary with new clients and events, arranging his first meetings with some and first dates for others whilst the shops filled up with hearts and flowers and teddy bears holding both. There was a familiar thrill in the air, of excitement and fresh starts and hope.

By the weekend after Valentine's Day, he could admit he was burned out, and promised himself that this year, definitely, he would get on top of his work more in December and give himself a clear run over January. He'd long since stopped counting the number of years he'd promised himself that, though.

Despite his best intentions to sleep late and do nothing all day, he was driven from his bed by a strange, restless energy that crawled up the back of his neck and felt like he was being watched constantly. Even feeding Tybalt and Mercutio didn't get rid of it, even though they had very definitely been staring at him. He made himself a mug of coffee and a plate of egg on toast that he had to defend from Merc, and once the plate was abandoned in the sink he drifted to the window and settled into his armchair with a book. Soon he had Tybalt curled up in his lap and purring like a lawnmower, and still the flat was too quiet.

He'd been lucky to find it, and luckier still to keep it. It had a shared garden, too overshadowed most of the year to grow much, but when the wisteria up the front of the cottage was in full bloom and Julie's hanging baskets were overflowing it was a lovely place to sit in an evening. He'd lived there longer than anywhere else in his life. Anywhere apart from Glendulsie. A painting of the lake in the snow, with a stag standing at the water's edge and swans drifting across the water from the other side, hung over the fireplace. Some travelling artist had hired out one of the cottages for nearly a year and sold a few of her paintings in the hotel bar. Greg was never sure why he'd bought that one, or any of them for that matter. But that had been before he moved to the flat, and it had come with him and settled in as well as he had. It had been a promise to himself. A promise of what, he'd never been able to work out.

His mind drifted again, as it did every time he paused, to Mycroft. It had been easy enough to track the other man down when they got back to London, and he'd spent days debating the wisdom of holding onto one of his cancelled restaurant reservations and sending him a message inviting him to get out of his rut. In the end he'd let the idea, and the table, go. When he popped in on the fifteenth, Anton had told him with delight that the young couple who snapped it up had got engaged, so that was nice. Better than trying to explain to Mycroft Holmes's personal assistant or secretary or whatever he had that he was inviting the man out for dinner on St Valentine's Day but that it was absolutely definitely probably not a date.

He realised he'd been staring at the same paragraph of his book for at least quarter of an hour and gave it up as a bad job, dropping it at the side of his chair with a thump and then staying right where he was rather than disturb the cat.

That was his life. Other people's love lives, two cats, and as many books as a man with no social life of his own to speak of could consume. He loved London, loved the comfort of having so many souls pressed up against his own all the time, the convenience of having all of human history on his doorstep. Every neighbourhood was a strange blend of cultures and ages, he couldn't go for a stroll without passing restaurants serving at least six different cuisines, and he had some of the best theatres, museums and parks on his doorstep. And somehow, he'd managed to let it all drift past him whilst he sorted other people's lives out for them.

"I need to get out more," he told Tybalt, who dug his claws into Greg's knee to indicate his disagreement.

# # #

"Really, Mycroft, you are distracted. Still thinking about your Scotsman?"

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I was not unaware of your presence, Sherlock. Simply hoping that if I ignored you, it would go away." He lifted his head again and favoured his brother with a thin, insincere smile. "Seeing as that has failed, what can I do to get you out of my office?"

His brother stalked around the room, looking Mycroft up and down from all angles before throwing himself into the visitor's chair. "I'll tell Mummy."

"And what, exactly, will you tell her?"

"That you've finally met someone. Someone who has you completely distracted and who you refuse to contact." He looked up at the ceiling and scowled. "That should get her off my back for a while at least."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "And what would you like me to do, to avoid you telling our mother that I had a hopelessly ill-advised one-night stand that I have no desire to repeat?" He held his hand up before Sherlock could speak. "And as to your observation that I am distracted, I have been busy. It's what happens when people return to their desks and realise that they do actually have jobs, and suddenly deal with the backlog they have spent a month allowing to accumulate."

"He's in London," Sherlock told him. "Not far from here, actually. It took me a while to find him; his mother didn't revert to her maiden name even after she left his father, so..."

"Oh for god's sake, I am well aware that he's in London. It is customary to know at least that much about someone before you take them to bed." He pointed at the door. "If you have nothing more interesting to say, I'll ask you to leave. And hand whatever security pass you stole in at the desk on your way out."

"It's yours."

He groaned. "Then give it here." He held out his hand and Sherlock twirled the card in his fingers childishly. "I could have you thrown out, you realise. It would be quite entertaining."

They glared at each other, but Sherlock evidently recognised the truth of Mycroft's threat and handed the card over at last. "You should call him," he reiterated. "I've written his number on the back of your pass so you don't lose it."

Mycroft checked. Of course Sherlock was telling the truth, he was an ass. "Why on earth are you so persistent about this?"

"Call it idle curiosity," Sherlock lied. "Or a desperate attempt to distract Mummy from her attempts to get me a 'real job', or perhaps just genuine brotherly concern."

"Hmm. The second option was believable." He tucked his security card into his inner pocket where Sherlock probably couldn't swipe it and pointed to the door again. "Show yourself out. And do try to stay out of trouble?"

His assistant arrived at that moment, and Sherlock scuttled for the lifts when she glanced in his direction. She didn't say a word about his presence, just flicked through her work on her tablet. "Sir, the Glendulsie Estate annual reports have been published. Mrs Mackenzie was telling the truth about their financial situation. Mr Hopgrove has given authorisation to raise the offer by 25% if you think it would be beneficial, but no further."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I'll review the reports myself, but I doubt there's any point." Despite the mess it had made of the company's plans, he could admit that, personally, he was surprisingly pleased by the news. "Thank you, Andrea."

"Of course, sir. There's also a message from Fennay's. They've asked to move the meeting later in the week. Johnson is out of the office for personal reasons for a few days and would like to attend personally." She glanced up at him. "Shall I send on our regards and accept the postponement?"

"Yes, we have the time. See what you can pick up on the grapevine, will you? See if some sort of token would be appropriate." He mentally filed that case to deal with later, and instead pulled up the Companies House website, grateful again that they'd left behind the days of filing cabinets and lost files. "I'll double check the figures for Glendulsie and send a proposal to the project board. Arrange a meeting on Tuesday, will you? Better pre-empt it."

"Already in your diary for nine," Andrea told him with a smirk she'd absolutely earned. "And bracketed with another at half past so it won't overrun."

He shook his head fondly. "Well, you seem to have it all under control as usual. Send me the Glendulsie file and get an early finish in that case. Before you fill my in-tray with work again. Have a good weekend, my dear."

“You too, Sir.” She left him without a word and he returned to his work.

Half an hour later, he sat back in his chair and nodded with satisfaction. Mrs Mackenzie's accounts were in order as she'd promised. He'd sent Hopgrove the report with a note advising that the project be mothballed for the foreseeable future. The ball was entirely in her court, and short of Lestrade talking her around...

He cut that thought off before it could start and turned his computer off with an angry stab. Once he'd thought of the man, though, he simply refused to be banished. If the situation was bad enough that Sherlock had noticed, something needed to be done. He wandered to the window, with its view stretching out on two sides across the city. The sun was still drifting down from its zenith and sparkled off the gleaming glass and steel of the financial heartland whilst it bathed the older streets and the distant suburbs in the soft silvery light of winter. A light rain had fallen earlier in the afternoon, and for once the city looked clean and gleaming. Mycroft's eyes drifted across to the dome of St Paul's and the river beyond, beyond the untidy mess of twisting streets below him and out towards the Downs in the far distance. With a fond smile he turned his back and made for the city and a distraction.

# # #

The Oxfam bookshop by the British Museum was a wonderland, and possibly Mycroft's favourite place in London. It lacked the nervous hush of some of the true antiquarian stores, or the suggestion that actually selling books was something the owner avoided that he'd experienced in some of the independents. Instead, it was just an Aladdin's Cave of literature and art, the perfect distraction for a quiet afternoon. The fact that they were quite used to him and more than happy to arrange for items to be couriered to his office was always a bonus. He spent the taxi ride there drawing up a list of books he was on the hunt for rather than wondering why Hamlet and books on the Highlands had found their way onto his list.

Inside he was enveloped in the delightfully familiar smell of old books and fair-trade chocolate that suffused the place. His fingers trailed lightly along the spines of the literature section, where a single glance told him that the titles he was looking for had not, by some miracle, turned up since his last visit. Instead, he threaded his way deeper into the shop, past science fiction and fantasy, travel, popular science and self-help until he reached the history section. There he took a moment to just enjoy the peace and quiet and the anticipation.

Someone behind him cleared their throat, and he had turned to face them before his brain caught up with the familiarity of the tone. The customary apology died on his lips as he found himself face to face with Gregory Lestrade once more. That damnably attractive half smile curled his lips, and he ran a hand through his hair again, sticking it up on end. "Thought it was you," he said, a touch gruffly. "Run out of Industrial Revolution?"

Mycroft licked his lips and tried to look casual whilst his heart hammered. "Indeed. I've decided to move backwards, head for the Agricultural Revolution instead."

"Ah. Jethro Tull."

He returned Lestrade's smile at last. "Ian Anderson."

"Right," Lestrade agreed with a laugh. He showed no signs of preparing to depart. Instead he leaned casually on the end of a bookcase, tucking his hands in his pockets and letting his gaze wander from Mycroft to the shelves behind him. "Not sure what I'm looking for myself. Just... something different."

Mycroft did not look away from Lestrade. He wasn't sure he could. "Yes," he agreed, "that sounds appealing."

"Change is as good as a rest, so I'm told. No chance of a rest, so..." Lestrade looked at him again, and this time Mycroft was sure he hadn't imagined the caution in his eyes, nor the way they flickered across Mycroft's face before their gazes met. "Change it is."

"Mrs Mackenzie's annual reports have been published," Mycroft heard himself saying. "I'm pleased to say that she has turned around the estate's fortunes remarkably quickly."

Lestrade grinned. "Yeah? She's a pretty remarkable woman."

"Quite. As such, I'm advising that the project be wrapped up." He finally managed to drag his attention to the bookshelves. "I will not be darkening your door again."

There was a pause whilst Lestrade fished for a reply to that, for which Mycroft didn't blame him. Eventually he chuckled. "That's good to know. I'll send you a bottle of whisky when she gets the distillery up and running."

"Oh good lord." They caught each other's eyes again and Mycroft looked away quickly. "So... Asian steam trains this time?"

"Dunno. I think I'm a bit steamed out. Might follow your suit and go older. Spotted anything on highwaymen?"

Mycroft's mouth got ahead of his brain again. "Have you been to the Canal Museum? It's up by Kings Cross and surprisingly good."

"I didn't even know there was one," Lestrade admitted. "An actual museum about canals?"

"And the ice trade. I haven't been in a while, actually, and find myself at a loose end this afternoon..." He closed his mouth abruptly and tried not to blush. "It's usually empty," he added as explanation, "and convenient for the train station."

Lestrade rubbed at his jaw, and the action triggered a visceral memory of the feeling of his stubble against Mycroft's hands instead. "I'm pretty sure you weren't planning to invite me to a canal museum when you opened your mouth," he chuckled, "but I'm game if you are."

"I... well, why not?" Mycroft asked helplessly. "It's a nice afternoon for a walk, if nothing else."


	8. Chapter 8

The canal museum was good. Dinner was better. Before Mycroft knew it, the evening had flown by, and Gregory was sharing a joke with the waiter as he picked up the bill. He turned back to Mycroft with a bright grin and leaned back in his chair with one arm resting on the back. "You know, I got thinking up in Scotland and the last few weeks. You were right, it's hard to take time for yourself, isn't it?"

"It's certainly something I need to get better at." Mycroft rested his chin on his hands and sighed. "Inbox pressure is a very real thing."

"Right? You reach the stage where you feel like you need a special occasion to be allowed to relax. Whether that's inbox zero or Christmas with your cousin on the warpath." He looked back to Mycroft at last with another crooked smile. "What I need is a friend. Share responsibility for dragging each other out of the office and look less sad than I do eating out on my own."

Mycroft laughed. "Have you considered a dog?"

"I'm not up for that sort of commitment. What I need is someone who'll come up with daft ideas like 'let's bunk off work and go to a canal museum for the afternoon', and who I can do the same for when he needs a break." He shrugged one shoulder in a way that was probably meant to look casual. "Offer's there if you need it as much as I do."

He looked away again whilst he considered the idea, and the other offer that Gregory was very deliberately not putting into words. One of them had to give voice to the thought, though, and apparently it fell to Mycroft. "Is this what I believe the kids refer to as a 'friends with benefits' arrangement?"

"It could be. And I'm thinking of more than your British Library membership."

Mycroft scowled. "How on earth did you know I have a membership?"

"I've known you more than five minutes. Of course you have a British Library membership." He grinned, but it softened quickly. "But yeah, if you like. It's not an expectation, though."

"I am... very much not objecting to the idea," Mycroft admitted. He trailed a finger down the stem of his empty wine glass and his eyes fell to Gregory's hand that lay on the table, with one finger tracing along a crease in the tablecloth. "In fact, the idea is deeply appealing."

Gregory's hand stilled. "Yeah?" he asked, voice low. When Mycroft looked up to meet his eyes again there was an invitation in his gaze. Mycroft was saturated with the now-familiar sensation of wanting to kiss him. "Want to start as we mean to go on?"

He had to swallow hard before he could get any recognisable form of English out. "I believe at this juncture I should ask 'your place or mine?'"

"Mine," Gregory told him firmly. "It's a lot closer."

# # #

It really was a long commute from Gregory's surprisingly cosy Zone 1 flat in Holborn to Mycroft's house on the edge of the Surrey Hills, and so it had seemed perfectly logical to simply... stay. Mycroft woke in the middle of the night to a moment of disconcerted alarm, with the silver-gold glow of the city breaking through a gap in the curtains on the wrong side of the bed, only to find himself grounded by the gravitational pull of another body on the mattress beside him and the slow breathing of someone deeply asleep. Slipping from the bed, he found the bathroom and pulled the door closed behind him and stood before the mirror with only the light from the window to see by, wondering if he'd recognise himself in daylight, or if he only felt different. When he returned to bed, slipping gratefully into the still-warm spot he'd vacated, Gregory followed the shift in the mattress and turned towards him, one hand falling to rest on the mattress between them, where Mycroft stared at it until his eyes wouldn't stay open any longer and he drifted back to sleep.

When he woke again, he was alone and the light creeping around the corners was brighter but dull with the rain pattering against the window. The bed beside him was still warm and from the living room next door he could hear the occasional quiet clink of crockery and the distant hum of the radio. Gregory had laid out underwear and socks for him. Why that, out of everything, made him blush he wasn't sure, but it did.

A few minutes later, dressed in his trousers and shirt with the sleeves rolled up and with the rest of his suit left firmly on the back of the chair where he'd hung it the night before, Mycroft ventured out of the bedroom to find Gregory feeding his cats whilst they tried, with great determination, to trip him up. He looked up at Mycroft with a warm, slightly surprised smile. "Morning. I didn't know how long you usually sleep in. Figured it's probably not late seeing as you were always up before me in Scotland, but these two have no respect for late nights or Saturday mornings. Tybalt, will you get your claws out of my jeans?"

His evident nerves somehow calmed Mycroft's, so he crouched to stroke Mercutio in the brief moment of attention he was granted before Gregory put the bowls down. "They are delightful gentlemen, claws aside."

"They're miniature demons is what they are." He nudged Tybalt out of the way so he could get to the sink and reached for the kettle. "Coffee? Or tea? I have English Breakfast in, actually. And I was going to shop today so I don't have much food in, but I can do us egg on toast. Did you sleep alright?"

Mycroft hid his smile behind his hand until he could work out why he was smiling. "Tea would be lovely, thank you, and I slept very well."

"Right, good." Gregory ran a hand through his hair again and stared at the kettle as if that would make it boil faster. He'd pulled on faded, well-worn jeans and another long-sleeved black T shirt, but ware barefoot on the vinyl and curled his toes against the cold. When he glanced back at Mycroft again, he seemed to have got control of some of his nerves, and there was a warm smile back on his face. "I'll have to go book shopping more often."

"I think you've been book shopping enough," Mycroft observed. One entire wall of the bedroom was bookcases, and although he had been a bit too distracted to peruse it thoroughly, he'd seen enough to know that he very much wanted to. "Although I should really show you my collection, although not all of it is my acquisition."

That brightened Gregory's smile with a touch of surprise. "Really? I'd love to see it." The kettle clicked off and he hurried to make the teas and set milk and sugar on the small table whilst Mycroft took a seat. "There we go," he said when he brought the mugs over. They were two of a set, in a William Morris design from the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the other four hung from the mug tree by the sink. Mycroft added a hint of sugar and just a splash of milk to his tea and sat back with his hands wrapped around his mug. The rain still pattered on the window, and Radio 4 burbled away in the background whilst the cats finished their breakfasts and returned to demand attention, and the warm smell of tea filled the air with a quiet contentment.

Mycroft contemplated the journey out to his house, deluged for a moment by the list of stops, the timings, his options based on the likelihood of there being available seats versus the chance of delays. He blinked it away and found Gregory watching him quietly with a curious tilt to his head. "I was just considering the trip back to my house. Zone four has both its advantages and disadvantages."

"Ah," Gregory said, and he dropped his eyes to his tea again. "Yeah, I guess it would."

Mycroft's stomach did something strange and uncomfortable at the look on Gregory's face, and he was filled with the sudden urge to fix it. Fix what or how, he wasn't sure, until he realised that his disappointment was at the idea of Mycroft leaving. That thought was frankly terrifying, but also delightful. He swallowed another mouthful of tea and set his mug down as casually as he could. "It would seem a wasted opportunity to ignore being so conveniently close to the city with a full day ahead of us and such beautiful weather to enjoy it in."

That got a laugh from Gregory, as another squall splattered rain against the windows. "The number of things I've not bothered doing because it requires a change on the underground or the weather’s grim…"

He ran a finger down the handle of his mug. "If I may suggest, then... As you may have guessed, I am a member at the British Museum, and I do have a guest pass. There's an exhibition I've been meaning to see, and it closes soon. If you would not be averse to an afternoon spent in quiet exploration..."

Mycroft trailed off, but Gregory's face lit up. "Sounds great. I mean, is that the one on the Mappa Mundi?"

"You’ve seen it?” Mycroft cleared his throne and nodded. “And there's a rather good tearoom not far from here, if you can handle some truly pretentious tea snobbery." He raised an eyebrow but couldn't look at Gregory. "They do a rather good chiffon cake, as well."

Gregory's chuckle reverberated through him. "Lay on, MacDuff. I'm in your capable hands."

"Is that so?" He looked up at last and smirked across the table when Gregory blushed. "Perhaps later. Once I've shown you my library."

It was a daring play, a step beyond all sense and reason and far beyond the bounds he had set for himself. But when Gregory lit up once more and Mycroft's heart hammered in response, he allowed himself this moment to reconsider his preconceptions. Early days, one step at a time, and then... He took a sip of his tea to hide his smile. Perhaps he hadn't been wrong, exactly. Just not in possession of all the facts.


	9. Epilogue

_Fast forwards_

It was Christmas on the Glendulsie Estate. Snow drifted from the heavy sky like feathers, and the horizon was little more than an indistinct smudge where the hills met the clouds. Christmas lunch had been served, David was holding court behind the bar, and Gregory had finally been released from his role as assistant chef to join Mycroft once more. They left the lodge behind and picked their way down the short path to the edge of the loch, which lay as a dark hollow in the snowy landscape.

Mycroft tucked his hands deep in his pockets against the cold and let his gaze drift over the silent landscape. "Margaret cornered me this morning," he admitted. "She's a formidable character."

"She's been trying since we got up here." Gregory bumped their shoulders together and when Mycroft looked over at him, he was grinning. "I did warn you."  
"I know you did. And I'm not objecting. Merely..." He turned back to the loch and smiled. "Warning you."

Gregory laughed. "Oh crap. Do I need to brace for impact?"

He hummed thoughtfully. "She had questions to ask, and certain wisdoms she felt she needed to impart. About the inevitability of time and the like."

"You mean she asked what we're actually doing and whether we think we ought to buck our ideas up and get on with whatever it is?"

"Something along those lines, I believe. Some of the precise wording was lost in dialect, but I believe I understood her meaning." He curled his fingers in his pockets and swallowed. "She is under the impression that you are happy."

Gregory laughed again. "I am happy. Aren't you?"

"Well of course."

"There we are, then." Gregory gestured out across the lake with a nod. "I've always loved it up here, you know that. Thought I'd settle down here until I realised, I couldn't really bear to leave London either. It's been like being torn in two. Coming up here was an escape and I dreaded going back, but I couldn't not."

Mycroft didn't dare look round at him. Even after a year, Gregory still surprised him often. He wasn't entirely used to the discomfort of not knowing what would come next yet. "Do you still dread it? Or has that changed with time?"

"It's changed with something." Gregory sighed out a white cloud. "It's like I've finally settled in down there. This isn't my only home anymore." He turned to face Mycroft, who could only glance at him from the corner of his eye. "I know we set out to be friends, and we are. You've become my best friend in the world very quickly. But... if you're up for it, I'd quite like to give something more a go. Maybe we have been for a while and we've just not been ready to admit it yet. But I've become rather fond of waking up with you, and I'd like to do it more often. Every day if I can."

They'd picked up habits from each other. Mycroft swore more. Gregory used longer sentences when he was nervous, and words like 'fond'. It was rather charming. He swallowed hard and turned to meet Gregory's eyes at last. "I must confess," he said softly, "that I have begun to think of time not spent with you as rather wasted. And there is a rather nice house not far from Kensington that I've been... considering."

Gregory's bright grin was all the answer and reward he needed. "You’ve been looking too?"

"I..." Lost for words, he allowed Gregory to draw him closer and ducked his head for a gentle kiss. "The idea had crossed my mind," he conceded. "Especially of late. Winter nights have their own kind of magic, don't you find?"

Gregory beamed at him. "They've certainly worked their magic on me." He fished in his pocket and pulled out a familiar brass key. "I got you this cut, just in case... Well. Merry Christmas, Myc."

"Merry Christmas, Gregory." He couldn't hold back his own smile. He didn't even try.


End file.
